


Coffee

by cuntoid



Category: IT (2017)
Genre: Alien Cock, Biting, Blood, Daddy Kink, F/M, Other, Spanking, Stalking Vibes, Teeth, commission, coulrophilia, drool, dubcon, noncon, possessive pen, slight Breeding Kink, you belong to pennywise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-07
Updated: 2018-07-07
Packaged: 2019-06-06 12:40:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15194999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuntoid/pseuds/cuntoid
Summary: Pennywise really, really loves the smell of coffee.





	Coffee

**Author's Note:**

> A commission for a lovely person named Kaitlin. Thank you very much! There is some name-usage, but otherwise this can easily read as a reader-insert for you voracious lot.

By the time you’re closing up, the sun has started its descent back into the horizon. It’s not quite sunset; it’s that strange in-between time, where shadows look unnerving and the sky hasn’t taken on any darkness but takes on weight, becomes bolder and more solid. The way the sunlight hits the trees and buildings makes you feel a little uncanny, like something’s in the air. It follows you until you nod and take part in the mindless goodbye chatter with your coworkers and the doors are locked. You watch each other get to your respective cars and gesture the okay, that you're all safe and ready to head home – you never know. It’s safer in groups.

The moment you push your key into the ignition, there’s a snatch of red in your peripheral vision. In the rear view mirror, a fat, bulging balloon rises up from the backseat, dripping red and inflating even larger, the walls of rubber screeching in protest as it fills too large. Your breath catches in your throat as you whip around and see nothing. The sounds are gone, the balloon is gone. All that’s left is a tiny box, a _present_ , wrapped in silver foil and tied with a red ribbon. You don’t have to touch it to know it’s velvet, to feel it under your fingertips, and you stare at it for a long moment. Time slows to a crawl and sweat beads at your hairline as you consider the little box, fingers frozen and white-knuckled on the steering wheel, neck aching. Your eyes never leave it as you reach out, running a cautious fingertip over the corner of the paper. It’s slick and harmless, as tangible as the car you’re seated in. You don’t waste any time – the ribbon comes undone from its lazy bow and the paper tears easily in your manic hands, popping the lid up from a white paper box to find a folded square of paper. 

Upon it, in dripping, inky black, two words stare back at you: _TURN AROUND_.

You know what to expect when you turn around. You’ve expected him all afternoon, a lingering miasma, an itch you can’t reach, the private, primordial thing in your blood that detects his presence. Him. _It_. Instinctively, you turn, and there’s nothing. Your windshield is clear, the only thing staring back at you being the strange midday sun.

Hands crawl up from under the seat, from behind it, many hands, blackened fingers and pointed nails, creeping around you and clamping down to bind you against the seat. They dig into your thighs and upper arms, your ribs, your throat and hair and shoulders. You flinch uselessly at the breath tickling your ear, the lips grazing your lobe as a manic little giggle fills the tense air of the vehicle.

“ _Gotcha, easy thing_.”

You shriek and two fingers push into your mouth, hooking into the inside of your cheek like talons. They taste like ashes against your tongue. There’s no way to avoid looking in the mirror, and once you do—

_There’s nothing._

Your own crazed expression stares back, mouth hanging open without any fingers, no hands growing from your fucking seat, no whispering monster in your ear. Your hands shake as you gather the courage to start your car. It takes every ounce of will not to watch the mirror instead of the road, afraid of missing something, of being startled again. The relative safety of your trip home and journey to the front door doesn’t quell any of the lingering fear, the darting of your eyes along the surrounding homes and horizon, the trees, the roads, anywhere it might be waiting. 

But you know it isn’t out _here_.

Upon entering your home, the atmosphere drops. The air is weighted with his presence. Dread prickles underneath your flesh to make it crawl, goosebumps breaking out across your arms, stiffening your nipples, and you don’t even flinch when the hands return. Two of them, coming around your waist and running over your belly, down your hip, pulling you against the impossibly tall creature that won’t stop visiting you.

“You smell _good_ , little girl.” He leans down to press his nose into your hair, tracing your part with the tip. “Warm. _Bitter_. Full of _hunger_ … and…”

The moan that rumbles up from his impossibly large frame shifts the entire room, it fills you with blind, aching panic. He turns you in his arms and tips your chin up, forcing you to see him, to take in his pale non-flesh and cannibal teeth, the bright slit of his wide mouth, his full lips shiny with spit. He nuzzles into your throat like a cat. The snuffling tickles, it makes you squirm in his grip and he giggles with manic delight as he takes in the scent of your clothes, the neckline of your shirt, the hollow at the base of your throat. He catches you under your ear along that soft line of flesh behind your jaw, dragging his tongue along it before giving you a little nip, and you moan. 

“Needy thing, aren’t you? Can’t even stand still for Daddy. You want what only _I_ can give you; I can taste it on your flesh, sweetling.”

“I don’t _want_ you. I’m—”

“ _Afraid._ ” The word is spoken and not spoken at all. He utilizes his alien tongue and it makes your hair stand up. You’re not meant to experience this part of him, the nature of his existence between the folds of the known and unknown universes, this extension of his true self that buzzes the word into your marrow. There’s no need for physical hearing. It simply exists inside of you, around you, unheard and yet each individual letter lights up in your brain all the same, like a cheap neon sign, _AFRAID! AFRAID! AFRAID!_ Pennywise giggles again and it draws out into the air, supple as a ribbon. “Give in to me, sugar-candy mortal. My little treat. Give in to Pennywise like you _always_ do. I like this smell on you, your bitter coffee scent. I smell it in your _clothes_ … your _hair_ … your _sweat_.”

“ _P-Pennywise_ …” Recoiling from his drooling lips isn’t an option, and yet you pull away from him in spite of it. His pupils grow, they grow and grow until you’re positive you’ll be pulled into them, they yawn open like deep space, starless and unthinkably remote. Black eats into the hungry, glittering gold, like amber, and what’s left are angry, thin rings of orange. They beam like alarms, deep and strange as sunsets. 

His teeth elongate. They drip with his saliva in thick ropes, pattering over the carpet in muffled drops and staining your clothes, your arms. You know from experience that it’ll leave little marks later, patches of raised, discolored flesh that stays hot all through the night like a fever, bringing with it visions of him, fitful nightmares that won’t let you rest. 

“That is _not_ what you call me, tiny thing. _Kaitlin_.” The purr of his voice ignites you, syllables and crisp enunciation tumbling from that cavern of sharkteeth in the shape of your name. “You’re an insolent child. You resist me all while your _tasty little cunt_ grows slick, while you _fill the air_ with your scent. You _deny_ me this? Hm?”

A giant hand cups you between the thighs, firm, final. He holds you so closely that your whole body lifts for a moment, toes scraping the floor as he suspends you by his grip on your cunt, by your shoulders pushed back into his chest.

“N-No, Pen, _of course_ n—”

His fingers curl and there’s a sharp, searing heat before he tears your pants away like tissue in the flexed talons that replace his hand. It’s almost worse than his gloved touch, the feel of rotten silk and overripe fruit and something too monstrous to describe, something straight from the uncanny valley, and your panties – held momentarily to his flaring nostrils – make his burning eyes flutter, they make him shudder for you. The pleasure ripping through your abdomen should gut you. You should be swimming in your own gore with the intensity of it, folding easily in half as he shoves your face to the carpet and yanks your hips high in the air, shirt sliding up over your ribs. 

“ _Naughty girl_ ,” he hums. Your thighs quiver and he slaps one of them, his laughter coming like gravel, like growling. It’s his third strike to your thighs that he sucks a sharp breath through his clenched teeth and focuses his energy on your backside. The first slap is void of any mercy and comes swift, cracking through the air like a whip. The tips of his nails skim the surface of your skin like little razors, opening you in thin, efficient welts that split and weep and twist over each other like a lattice of pain. It makes you cry, it makes you sob and beg. It makes you uncomfortably slick. “This is what happens to little playthings that don’t listen. What you’re feeling now is nothing compared to what I can do, to what I can make you feel. I can make this very unpleasant. I can _unmake_ you.”

Your cunt throbs. He traces the swollen plush of your lips, the opened seam of your pussy, and finally, your aching clit. The way he strokes it pulls long, honey-sweet moans from your throat, punctuated by soft little gasps. He slaps you so that you yelp, twitching your hips away from his cruelty.

“Oh—the tiny thing _hurts_ , it _hurts so much!_ But it doesn’t stop you from dripping like a bitch in heat, does it? Daddy knows— _oh, yes,_ Daddy _knows_ what his girl needs.”  
He brings you close again with those evil fingers, waiting until you’re practically sitting in the palm of his hand before he rears it back once more to rain sharp little blows against your cunt, _slap slap slap_ , his laughter filling your ears. 

“Daddy, _please_ …”

Everything stops. His hands on your body is the only proof of his presence, even the sound of his breath gone. He waits in baited, deadly silence while every nerve inside of you is screaming. 

“Please fuck me.”

His breathing is labored as though he’s on his last legs, gulping his breaths through that rapidly expanding maw, an endless cave of glittering stalactites white as bones against blood, sharpened to milky needlepoints. He comes apart. He shifts in and out of perception, touch without form, a melting kaleidoscope of lights and flesh and chips of bone, of searing orange suns and an insectile hum that bores into your skull til your teeth chatter. Inside that hum is something terrible, voices and non-voices, hints of language that existed long before the forms to utilize it. 

He shudders back into place, restrained enough to hold himself together at last. He leans down to nose at your cunt and the points of his teeth tease you with their light scratching, a threat, a promise, a twisted stroke of affection while he laps at your clit with his rubbery black tongue. 

“ _I know what you need,_ ” he rasps. He sounds manic as he tears the fabric into shreds behind you, whining when his strange cock slithers its bulk between your thighs and against your parted slit. He doesn’t seem keen on wasting more of your time with frivolity, shoving himself inside of you without giving you time to adjust. The stretch is all-consuming. It burns like his eyes, like that horrible sunset color. Curling your fingers into the carpet and clenching your teeth against the flood of sound pouring from your lips is all you can do, whining, moaning, begging him over and over and over for nothing in particular. Just begging. Just trying to keep from splitting in half when he pounds into you and chants your name in his gritty voice like a mantra, Kaitlin, Kaitlin, Kaitlin. 

“So soft and ready for me, _always_ , my little girl. My girl come callin’ – and I come to _reap_. _My. Girl_.” He giggles and it melts into a moan, a long, desperate sound like a howl. He shudders and laughs again, digging his claws into the flesh of your hips to impale you down to meet each thrust. “Can’t refuse _Daddy—no,_ you can’t, pretty thing, slippery little _fucktoy_. Yeah? How you _cry_ and _cry_ for me to _fuck_ you, to fill your _cunt_ with my seed. This is your purpose. Scream again, _Kaitlin_ , _coffee-girl_ , sing for Pennywise. _Scream_ for Daddy.”

The head of his cock squirms inside of you, nudging against your cervix. He rides the line between pain and pleasure with a measured sense of leisure, grunting with approval each time you tense and scoot instinctively away, scrabbling for purchase against that fucking carpet and finding no escape from the onslaught of sensation. It ebbs and flows, laced with that sharp unpleasantness, that fear that he’ll push too hard, fuck you apart, and the panicked thoughts of it seep into him and make him swell inside of you. It destroys every last shred of will to resist giving in to him, as if you have a choice in anything. 

“Do I let you cum?” He rolls his hips back and focuses his energy elsewhere, the shape of him changing inside you to prod at your walls, to ripple and twist and slide within their tight heat. “Would you like that? To be a good little girl, to cum all over Daddy? _Do it_. Do it before I do! Cum _now_ or I’ll take you home, _oh yes_ , take you with me and _keep_ you. I’ll keep you _all to myself!_ Better cum, tiny thing, _cum a’calla!_ ”

Fear blurs the line between pleasure and pure, euphoric adrenaline, surging through your veins hard enough that you shake on your knees and elbows. You’d buckle under the slightest touch if Pennywise wasn’t holding you up by the hips. You can barely support your upper body on your elbows and stay afloat thanks only to him, to his unthinkable strength, his persistence to fuck you stupid and bury his nose anywhere he can catch your scent. He removes a hand from your hips only to wrap your hair around his knuckles and pull, leaning over your arched spine to sniff at it, at the tender place behind your neck, where he sinks his teeth into your flesh to leave his mark.

That’s what pushes you over the edge—the shock of his bite, the way he tugs your flesh between those deadly teeth and sucks at it, laps at it like candy, your skin soaked with sweat and the scent of your hormones, the acidity of your fear. It’s so focused that you can feel your own blood well up and bead against his enamel through the tiny, stinging punctures. If he had more control before, it’s gone now: he fucks into you without regard to your comfort or safety once you’ve cum for him, ignoring your renewed shrieking, the rawness of your voice spurring him to completion. As his cock twitches and engorges inside of you, signaling his release, he drags his tongue up your spine to pull a shiver from you like magic. Everything with him is magic, and why do you always resist? Why, when he gives you _this_ , when he knows what you need and can give it to you like no creature of the flesh could? Of course he’s right. Of _course_. _Of course_ you’re his.

“ _Good girl_ ,” he croons, rocking gently with the tide of his orgasm. Each spurt of his seed is warm and strong, bathing you from the inside, so copious and thick that it drools out of you around the uncomfortable seal of his knot-like shaft. He stops only when every last drop is free of his body and has had a chance to soak your womb. “My good girl, my pretty, _obedient_ thing, my little _cum-slut_. You _belong_ to me. Say it.”

“I belong to you, Daddy. I’m _yours_.” It’s so hard to speak. The words slur together in your exhaustion, punctuated by a soft whimper as he pulls out. He rolls you to your back and you have no choice but to comply, limp as a doll. He pushes your thighs apart and rucks your shirt up, licking you clean of your sweat—with your cunt, he only dips his fingers to push his cum back inside of your body, muttering to himself, satisfied smirk on his lips. The teeth behind that sardonic slash of his mouth are back to normal. His face has settled, his body as physically present as ever, like he never came apart in his potent rage. Fear trickles back to the forefront and his limp cock twitches. “I’m yours,” you say again, closing your eyes against the gentle sweep of his mouth. He laps against your hipbones, over your belly and the curve of your ribs, between your breasts. He licks your throat and the shelf of your jaw, your cheek, back down your shoulder where blood has begun to dry.

“Should take you home anyway,” he mumbles. He licks his lips and winks, eyes blue as summer skies, as unreal as the heart of glaciers. “My own tiny thing. _Little pet_. You’ve done well, _yes you have!_ Rest and let my seed take root.”

“Pen…” You flush and turn away, too overstimulated to even begin the process of thinking about carrying his alien brood. “ _Stop_.”

He snickers and then the warmth is gone. Turning back confirms that he’s not there, that he’s slipped back into whatever pocket of the universe he came out from before. The feeling of unreality that surrounds him like a fog is cleared, the only proof of his encounter being your sore cunt and bleeding wounds, the lingering smell of burnt popcorn and spun sugar and the strange, sweet smell of his seed dripping down your inner thighs. You definitely need another coffee after this.


End file.
